


Dancing Cheek to Cheek

by SmashingTeacups



Category: Outlander & Related Fandoms, Outlander (TV), Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: F/M, Family Bonding, Family Feels, Inspired by Music, Mother-Daughter Relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-11
Updated: 2019-02-15
Packaged: 2019-10-26 07:49:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17741855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SmashingTeacups/pseuds/SmashingTeacups
Summary: Sometimes a love song can be cathartic.A trio of vignettes featuring the Fraser family and an old Fred Astaire classic.





	1. Lullaby

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much to a_partofthenarrative for betaing. She puts up with all kinds of crazy from me. ;)

**Boston**

**_December 1948_ **

 

My body sensed that the baby was stirring several minutes before I heard her. I swam up from the depths of sleep in ebbing waves, dragging heavy limbs across the bedsheets in a stretch. I blinked one eye open, listening. The house was silent for a moment, but then I heard it: the whimpering grunts of a rooting child, not yet crying, but hungry.

I was out of bed and moving toward that Siren’s call before the rest of me was fully awake. My breasts were aching, a bit of milk already beginning to stain my nightgown.

“I know, Bree. I hear you. I’m coming. Here I come.” I was already slipping my left breast free of the white satin as I stepped through the nursery door. A slant of bright moonlight glowed through the window, illuminating the wriggling form of my newborn daughter. At the sound of my voice, she turned her head instinctively toward me. She had a tiny balled fist in her mouth  – a poor substitute for the nourishment she sought. She flailed it unhappily away as I lifted her from the crib, her face crumpling with a series of hitching cries.

“Ohh, shh, baby, it’s all right. Shh, shh. No, you’re all right. Mummy’s here, love.” I eased down into the rocking chair and had her latched in the same movement. I was getting better at this; practice really did make perfect. “There we go, shh. It’s all right now.”

Bree settled without any further ado to the serious business of eating. The flood of oxytocin hit my bloodstream in the same moment as the near-ecstatic release of the aching engorgement of milk, and I let my head fall back against the chair with a sigh of relief. I lay that way for a long while, eyes closed, listening to the sounds of her grunts and suckles and little hiccuping gasps for breath. As the warm milk hit her belly, she gradually grew gentler, easing into a more steady rhythm. Her little piglet eating noises were punctuated more and more frequently by soft hums of contentment that made my heart clench with unspeakable love.

_ Jamie,  _ my traitor’s heart called for him, eyes turning up to the moon.  _ Jamie, do you see her? _

She was so like him. I couldn’t even begin to count the ways. Currently, she was doing a very good impression of his habit of eating voraciously and then dropping off to sleep like a stone. As her suckles became more lethargic, I preemptively switched her over to the right breast before she could drift off on me. Thankfully, the stimulation of being moved was enough to rouse her back to her task, at least for a little while. I rubbed a thumb back and forth over the downy peach fuzz of her hair, encouraging her to keep going long enough that I wouldn’t wake up bursting in an hour. She did her due diligence, my sweet girl, before her mouth finally fell open in a milky cupid’s-bow “o.” Her little body arched once, drawing in a deep breath and releasing it in a shuddering, happy sigh, before she went slack and boneless against me.

I studied her still, perfect face in the moonlight, finding Jamie in every feature  – the slanted eyes, the curve of her mouth, the pink-tipped faun ears. I’d promised that I would stop this... stop seeking him, stop clinging desperately to his memory. I knew I should have put her down in her crib and gone back to bed with Frank. But my fingers were as traitorous as my heart, and they whispered over the back of her head again, tickling the downy wisps of hair, moving in slow circles down toward the base of her neck, until…

_ There. _

Her tiny lips twitched, then split in a gummy grin.

My breath caught in a throat burning with grief. I shifted the baby up to my left shoulder then, needing to hold her to my heart. Closing my eyes on tears, I stood with her and began to pace the small room, bouncing and making shushing noises that were entirely for my own comfort. Before I could second-guess the instinct, a tuneless hum began to vibrate in my chest. The moment I realized what I was doing, I froze in the middle of the room, going quite pale.

I didn’t remember much about my own mother, but I remembered that she used to sing to me.

It occurred to me, quite suddenly, that I had never sung to Brianna.

There was a reason for that. A good one. There were some memories I’d been careful to leave behind me; nerves so raw they would ignite if touched. The thought of singing conjured images of another redheaded baby, and a cold little grave in Paris, and a hauntingly cheerful tune about the seaside.

I looked down at Brianna’s sleeping face, blinking back tears. I was her mother, too. Here was my living, breathing child  – the only one I would ever have. No matter how much it pained me, I couldn’t deny the deep, primal compulsion to sing to her.

For me, if anything. For me, more than for her.

I’m not sure where the song came from, to be honest. It was from a film, I knew that much… one I’d seen a long time ago, with Uncle Lamb, in some musty cinema with a projector that skipped. I distinctly recalled the elegant figure of Fred Astaire popping and sputtering in black and white, and being irritated that such a fine musical number should be ruined by incompetent technology.

As I clutched Brianna’s downy head to mine, the lyrics to that piece were somehow the first on my lips. Swallowing down the terror and the heartache that had lodged themselves in the back of my throat, I began to rasp out the old familiar tune, swaying my baby across the moonlit nursery.

_ Heaven, I’m in Heaven _

_ And my heart beats so that I can hardly speak _

_ And I seem to find the happiness I seek _

_ When we’re out together dancing, cheek to cheek…  _

  
  



	2. Vigil

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm veering heavily into showverse here (it's meant to be a missing moment from 4x09), but I canna resist the physical characterization of book!Brianna, so... call it a mashup I guess? 
> 
> This chapter takes place the night before Bree's confession to Claire by the river.

**Fraser’s Ridge**

**_October 1769_ **

 

Brianna had barely touched her supper. Again.

She was careful to try to conceal that fact; I’m sure she realized I was watching her. She’d peeled apart the sweet pearl onions with the tines of her fork, making little rosebuds out of the layers, then set about picking the bones from her trout and mashing the flesh into an unappetizing pink paste. Her utensils moved constantly, but I hadn’t seen more than three bites actually reach her mouth. Rollo, on the other hand, had been the happy recipient of at least ten; he sat with his head in her lap, licking his chops hopefully every few seconds.

Worried though I was, I couldn’t help but smile faintly at the sight. It harkened back so strongly to Bree’s toddler years, when she would gleefully slop handfuls of food onto the floor beneath her high chair, doubling over with peals of laughter when our Newfoundland gobbled up the mess.

God, but I longed for those days. Her needs had been so intrinsically simple then, and all of her troubles could be soothed with a cuddle and a kiss.

I didn’t know how to help her now.

When everyone else had finished their supper, I stood to clear the dishes and stacked Bree’s plate on the rest without comment. Still, I made a point to catch her eye, long enough to let her know that I’d seen half her supper go to the canine garbage disposal. The color rose in her cheeks, but there was a flash of gratefulness, too, for my silence.

Good. She needed to know that she could still trust me to keep her secrets. Whatever this one was – and there was something, I was certain – I hoped that maybe this would be the nudge she needed to share it with me.

“Let me help you with that,” she offered, pushing back her chair and beginning to gather up the cutlery and serving dishes. Working with the practiced ease of many years of dinner cleanup, we had the table cleared and leftovers stored in a matter of minutes. I mixed a bit of our drinking water with some boiling water from the kettle, and then the two of us assumed our usual stations: I washed, she dried.

The men remained seated around the table behind us, engrossed in their post-dinner banter-and-whisky. I waited for a particularly boisterous swell in the conversation before tilting my head to Brianna’s.

“Can I get you something else, darling? It’s not a PB&J on Wonderbread, but there are bannocks and honey in the cupboard.”

“No thanks,” she murmured, leaning her temple against mine. “The dinner was great, I’m just not feeling very well.”

Frowning, I wiped a soapy hand on my apron and then pressed it to her forehead. “You do feel a bit warm.”

“Yeah. And just... queasy. Tired. I don’t know.” She rubbed a wrist over bleary eyes. “I think I’m coming down with something. Guess I should probably go to bed early tonight, huh?”

“I think that would be wise,” I agreed, smoothing back an errant red curl from her brow. Bree shifted closer to me, then, dropping her head to my shoulder and nosing into the curve of my neck for comfort. That old familiar gesture ignited my maternal instincts like a matchstick, the quiet incessant worry stoked at once into a roaring blaze. I gathered my giant Viking of a child into my arms and wrapped her tight, my eyes snapping up over her shoulder to find Jamie’s.

He’d been watching; the men’s conversation had never lulled, but I’d felt his gaze on us the entire time. The moment he caught my eye, he gave an infinitesimal nod, and turned to touch his godfather’s wrist under the table. They, too, proceeded to have an entire conversation with only their eyes, and within seconds Murtagh had drained the last of his whisky and set the empty tumbler down with a clank.

“Weel, thank ye kindly for the fine supper,” he said, taking his cue. “Young Ian, if ye would, I need some help wi’ the horses before ye retire for the night.”

Ian, the sweet daft lad, took a bit more prodding. “Och, are ye turnin’ in already, ye auld coot? Why, it’s nae half past sev–”

“Mmphm.” Never one for subtlety, Murtagh pulled his chair back for him, clasped a firm hand on his shoulder, and herded him toward the door like a particularly relentless sheepdog.

“Oh, er, well then, I – _ow,_ I’m _comin’_ , ye dinna have to push me! – Uncle Jamie, Auntie, Cousin, ‘twas a pleasure, as always. S’pose we’ll see ye in the mornin’ then. Come, Rollo!”

“Night, boys,” Bree called, lifting her head with an unconvincing smile. Still, she didn’t make a move to leave the circle of my arms.

The men exchanged a few brief parting words on the porch, and then Murtagh and young Ian were off down the wooden steps. Jamie leaned against the doorjamb, waving them goodbye. When their crunching bootfalls faded into silence, there was a strained pause as he turned to catch my eye again, one hand still resting hesitantly on the door.

 _Should I go?_ He asked me wordlessly.

Before he could read the answer in my face, Brianna called out to him softly, surprising us both.

“Stay, Da.” The faint smile that touched her lips was genuine this time. She lifted an elbow toward the stack of clean, dry dishes. “You can be on gopher duty.”

Jamie’s eyes narrowed in confusion. I gave a soft huff of laughter before clarifying for him, “She means you can put the dishes away.”

A relieved smile bloomed on his face, then, spreading until the tips of his ears went pink. Before he moved to join us, though, he threw me a second questioning glance, making sure that I agreed. Swallowing my disappointment – I had hoped that this might be an opportunity for a mother-daughter bonding moment, wherein she might finally open up to me – I smiled back at him, nodded, and pressed my lips into Brianna’s hair. This was a good thing, after all. We’d been hoping for something like this.

 _If only you knew what it means for her to ask_ , I wanted to tell him.

Gopher duty had always been Frank’s job. I washed; Brianna dried; Frank put away. It had been our routine every night since Bree was old enough to hold a dish towel. Assigning it to Jamie was more than just a kind way to include him; it was a small gesture of acceptance, permitting him to assume a role she’d always associated with her father.

Smiling, I bumped Brianna’s hip with my own in subtle acknowledgment. She didn’t look up, but gently bumped me back. Then, with a weary sigh, she began to pull away from me to resume her own assigned task. The worry flooded back over me in a rush, and I put a hand on her shoulder to stop her, smoothing my other palm over her too-warm cheek. The invitation had been extended; that was the important part. Jamie and Bree could do the dishes together another time.

“It’s alright, darling. We can handle the rest of this. Why don’t you call it a night?”

Brianna deflated a bit in relief, and I knew I’d been right to offer. “Yeah, sorry. I might take you up on that. I’m pretty beat.” She pursed her lips, then, hesitating, as though she wanted to ask something but wasn’t quite sure how to go about it. I held her gaze, eyebrows raised slightly in encouragement, until at last she relented with a slight blush, “Will you come tuck me in?”

Longing and concern knotted themselves into an aching lump in the back of my throat. I couldn’t even remember the last time she’d asked.

“Oh, my sweet girl,” I whispered, a bit of moisture pricking at my eyes. “Of course.” I brushed a thumb along the curve of her cheekbone, then gave her neck a pat. “Why don’t you go get ready for bed, and I’ll be along in a moment?”  

“‘Kay,” she said faintly, her lips tightening in appreciation. She took a step toward the door and then thought better of it, veering right to give Jamie a one-armed hug. “Night, Da. Thanks for picking up my slack.”

“Och, dinna fash. Before you came, this was my job, ye ken. So if anything, I reckon you’ve been picking up _my_ slack.” He rubbed a hand up and down her back before releasing her. Though he managed a smile, the lines around his eyes were tight with concern. “I’m sorry ye dinna feel well. Get some rest, aye? I’m sure ye’ll be right as rain in the morning.”

“Hope so.”

Jamie looked as though he very much wanted to kiss her, but settled for sweeping a large hand through her hair instead. “Sleep well, _m’annsachd_.”

“You too. Night.” She went to the door, and threw one last glance over her shoulder at me, seeking reassurance.

“I’ll be right there,” I promised, and then she was gone with the squeak of a hinge and clatter of the door.

A long, aching silence fell over the cabin in her absence, fraught with worry and uncertainty, words left unspoken, questions for which neither of us had the answers. When I finally looked over at Jamie, his knuckles were white on the table edge.

“How bad?” he asked quietly, without looking up. “I ken it’s bad enough by the look on your face, but…”

I drew in a deep, shaky breath, letting my eyes drift shut. “I don’t know,” I admitted. “I don’t know what’s wrong. She won’t tell me.”

“You dinna think she’s truly ill, then?”

I shrugged, then picked up a serving dish from the dirty pile and began to scrub at the brown ring of baked-on food. “She does feel warm. A low-grade fever, maybe.”

“And she’s no’ eating. The mongrel had the lion’s share of her supper.”

“Mm.” I scrubbed a bit harder.

“Do ye think it could be the malaria?” he asked suddenly, a bit of alarm creeping into his tone. “Like her wee companion?”

“No,” I assured him. “No, she would have had to contract it from the same source, during the crossing from Scotland. The symptoms would have manifested long before now. No, I’m sure this is just a virus, nothing to worry about.” I sighed heavily, passing a wrist over my eyes. “It’s not the fever that’s bothering me.”

“Aye, I ken.” He took the now-spotless serving dish from me, rinsed it, and began to dry it. “You think there’s more to the story than she’s tellin’ ye. About Roger.”

I chewed the tip of my tongue for a moment, then nodded. “Yes.”

“Do you think she’ll tell ye now? If ye ask?”

“Maybe.” I nodded again slowly, finally meeting his gaze. “But I’m not sure if I _should_ ask, or wait to see if she’ll broach the subject on her own. I think she’s been trying to get up the courage to tell me, whatever it is. The fact that she’s asking for me like this… reaching out…”

“Go to her, then,” he insisted. A flicker of emotion passed behind his eyes that I couldn’t quite name. “She needs ye, Claire. She...” He drew in a breath and held it for a moment, as though trying to find the right words. Whatever he was going to say, he dismissed it with an exhale and a shake of his head, and took the dish from my hands. “I’ll finish here, _mo nighean donn_. Go and see to our daughter.”

 

* * *

 

Lizzie was already sound asleep by the time I slipped into the shelter that was serving as the girls’ temporary living space. The physician in me couldn’t help but step over to her and perform a quick assessment of her sleeping form: normal rate and rhythm of breathing, pallid complexion but not diaphoretic, skin turgor and mucous membranes that didn’t immediately scream of dehydration. Deeming her ostensibly stable, I was able to fix my attention on my daughter without the background noise of niggling doctor’s guilt.

Brianna was just finishing her nighttime ablutions when I turned to her. She’d already changed into her nightgown, brushed her hair and washed her face, and was currently scrubbing her teeth with a frayed willow twig.

“I miss Crest,” she said thickly, before spitting into the wooden basin.

“So do I,” I assured her. “Or a proper toothbrush, for that matter.”

“That too.”

I stepped up behind her, stroking my fingers through the shimmering copper waves while she rinsed and packed away her personal hygiene items. “Do you want me to braid your hair for you?” I asked softly.

She shook her head, scrubbing a hand over her eyes. “Not tonight. I’ve got a killer headache. I thought leaving my hair down might help.”

“My poor baby.” I kissed her temple, draping an arm about her shoulders. “You really aren’t feeling well, are you?”

“No,” she moaned, turning into my embrace and tucking her nose into the curve of my neck again. I brought a hand up to the base of her head to cradle her there, while the other smoothed up and down her back.

“Do you want me to make you some tea for the headache?” I asked, feeling desperately as though I needed to do something more. “It might help.”

“No, Mama,” she murmured, nuzzling closer. “Can you just hold me for a little while?”

“Of course,” I whispered. “Of course I can.” I turned my lips into her hair and began to rock her gently, swaying back and forth on the balls of my feet. Bree let out a little huff of air against my neck and tried to settle in, but after a few moments it occurred to me that she was now much, much taller than the last time we’d done this, and bending over for an extended period of time couldn’t be the most comfortable position for her. Drawing back, I moved my hands to her shoulders and steered her toward her bed. “Why don’t you lie down, Bumblebee?” I suggested, smiling on the old, seldom-used pet name. “I’ll stay with you until you fall asleep.”

Bree gave me a wan smile, then went to pull back the covers and climb into bed. She scooted over to the far side of the mattress to make room for me, and I slid in obligingly beside her. I propped myself up on one elbow and allowed her a moment to get settled before pulling the quilt up and tucking it in all the way around her.

“There we go,” I said, in the whispery sing-song voice I’d used on her as a child. “Snug as a bug in a rug, hmm?” I molded my own body loosely alongside hers on the outside of the blankets, close enough to give her my comfort and warmth, but not so close that I would disturb her when I got up to leave.

Bree drew in a trembling breath as she turned her gaze up to me, her slanted blue eyes suddenly filling with tears. “I missed you so much, Mama.” She looked so young and so lost in that moment that I felt my heart would hemorrhage into my chest. Abandoning all thought of giving her space, I leaned forward and clasped her to me with bruising force.

“Oh, Bree. Oh, my baby.” I suddenly wanted nothing more than to take that beautiful child back into my womb, where I could protect her and keep her close to me, always. “You have no idea.”

She was clutching to my shawl with balled fists, sniffling and shaking in my arms. I felt her take a breath to say something several times, only to lose her nerve and whimper instead.

“What is it?” I begged her after the third time. “Bree, tell me what’s the matter.”  

She shook her head miserably, burying her face in the soft swell of my bosom. “Not tonight, Mama. Please? Can we talk about it tomorrow?”

I drew in a deep breath, desperately trying to steady myself. So there _was_ something. Something more. Something she’d been keeping from me.

And if I were being perfectly honest with myself, I already knew what it was. I was a doctor, and her mother.

I knew, and I pushed that knowledge stubbornly, viciously down.

“Tomorrow, then,” I agreed, somehow managing to sound calm. “You can come pick herbs with me by the river. We’ll make a day of it. All right?”

She nodded wordlessly, releasing her breath in a little sob of relief.

Tomorrow. But not tonight.

Tonight, I needed to hold my baby. And my baby needed her mother.

I cradled her to me and rocked her, and tried to blur out everything else. If I buried my face in her hair and breathed her in, just like this, I could still see the moonlight chase the shadows across the nursery floor.

I was humming to her before I was even aware that I was doing it. It always seemed to start that way – a maternal instinct, soul-deep and primal, to soothe a child with song, even before the conscious mind could catch up.

Bree noticed, though. She sniffled and wiped her nose on my shawl, then gave an unexpected little huff of laughter.

“Sinatra, Mama? Really?” she said, her voice groggy from crying and exhaustion. “You hate Ol’ Blue Eyes.”

I craned my head back to peer at her quizzically. “What do you mean?”

“That song you were humming. It’s Frank Sinatra, right?”

I smiled. “Fred Astaire, darling. A classic. You never saw _Top Hat_?”

“No.”

“Mm. You’re missing out.” I kissed the top of her head and resumed rocking her. After a moment, a thought occurred to me. “But what would make you say I hate Sinatra?”

“Don’t you?”

“No. Whyever would you think so?”

She pulled back a bit, quirking an eyebrow at me as she propped herself up on an elbow. “Uhh, maybe the fact that you always switched off the radio whenever one of his songs came on?”  

That surprised me. I blinked – twice – before managing a weak, “Oh.” Bree chuckled at that, and I returned a thin smile. I thought about it for a moment, then answered quietly, “No... it wasn’t that I didn’t… I liked his music very much, actually. I just couldn’t listen to it, because it –”

“Reminded you of Jamie,” she finished for me, realization dawning on her face. She looked at me then as though she were suddenly seeing me through the eyes of a peer, and not a child. Very slowly, she started to nod, pursing her lips. “Yeah,” she said softly. “Yeah, I kind of get that.”

I studied her face sadly, reaching up to touch her cheek. “I’m sorry that you do,” I whispered. I caught myself, then, and screwed my lips shut before I could say more.

_Tomorrow._

Bree returned a sad smile, but her eyes were clear now; no more tears. She laid her head down on the pillow, still watching me with that gleam of newly kindled understanding.

“Can you sing it to me? That song?”

“Would it make you feel better?”

She shrugged, smiling sleepily. “Worth a shot.”

Suddenly a bit shy, I laid my head down next to hers and fidgeted with a frayed string on the quilt. I picked up from where I’d left off humming, my voice soft and hoarse, rising just enough for her to hear me across the pillow.

 _Oh! I love to climb a mountain_  
_And to reach the highest peak_  
_But I don’t enjoy it half as much  
As dancing cheek to cheek_

 _Oh! I like to go out fishing_  
_In a river or a creek_  
_But I don’t enjoy it half as much_  
_As dancing cheek to cheek_  
  
_Dance with me_  
_I want my arm about you_  
_The charm about you_  
_Will carry me through to heaven_  
  
_I’m in Heaven_  
_And my heart beats so that I can hardly speak_  
_And I seem to find the happiness I seek_ _  
When we’re out together dancing cheek to cheek_

She was half-asleep by the time I’d finished, burrowed in her pillow, the corner of her lip tipped sweetly upward.

“That was really nice, Mama,” she murmured. “You have a pretty voice.”

I blushed. “Thank you.”

One catlike blue eye cracked open, the corner of her lip lifting even further. “Da can’t carry a tune in a bucket. I caught him singing to the pig the other day.”

I blew a raspberry trying to contain a laugh, still vaguely cognizant that Lizzie was sleeping across the room. “One of his few genetic shortcomings, I’m afraid. Thankfully, it’s one that he didn’t pass along to you.”

Brianna scrunched her nose, holding up a lock of her thick red mane. “Yeah, this was bad enough. You just had to fall in love with a ginger, huh, Mama?”

I gave a little hum of amusement, bending to kiss her. “I’m not sorry one bit.”

She smiled, her eyes slipping shut again. I stroked her hair for a little while, waiting for her to begin to drift off. She didn’t, though; the tension that had eased from her face while I sang began to tighten the skin around her eyes and mouth again. She shifted restlessly, moving her limbs under the covers, trying and failing to get comfortable. At last she opened her eyes with an apologetic little sigh, took my hand from her head, and gave it a squeeze.

“I’m okay now, Mama. Thanks for sitting with me. You should get back to Jamie, let him know I’m not dying or anything. He spent the whole night looking at me like I was going to spontaneously combust.”

I nodded, bringing up my other hand to clasp hers between mine. “He loves you very much, you know.”

“I know.”

I opened my mouth, wanting to say more, but I recognized the glaze that was falling over Brianna’s eyes. Jamie did that – retreated into himself to think, his face utterly impassable. I didn’t have that ability; she certainly didn’t get it from me. Still, I recognized it for the dismissal that it was. If she needed time with her thoughts, I could certainly respect that.

Tomorrow would come soon enough.

I brought her hand to my lips and kissed it softly. “And _I_ love you too, my Bumblebee. Rest well. I’ll meet you by the river in the morning.”

“Bright and early, knowing you,” she said, offering an unconvincing smile as she burrowed back into her pillow. “Night, Mama.”

“Goodnight, my darling.”

 

* * *

 

Jamie was sitting in his chair by the fire, a book open in his lap. I highly doubted he’d read a single word; he was staring off into the flames, his stiff ring finger tapping restlessly on his thigh. His eyes snapped up when I walked through the door, and he was on his feet before I’d taken three steps into the cabin.

“How is she?”

I went to him, heaving a deep sigh against his chest as his arms folded around me. I shook my head a little, then tilted my face up to his, hoping that he could read it and I wouldn’t have to say anything at all.

He studied me for a moment, then pressed his lips to my forehead. I felt his fingers curl tightly into the fabric of my dress.

“Tomorrow,” I whispered to him, both an answer and a request.

Jamie nodded, and took my hand, and brought me with him to bed. We didn’t bother to change out of our clothes; there was no point. He sat up against the pillows and opened his arms for me, and I molded against him, burying my face in the crook of his neck. Huddled together and silent, we listened to the clock tick away the minutes until morning.

Neither of us slept a wink that night.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please excuse any errors you might have found in this chapter; it's my beta's birthday, and I was not about to slap her with 13 pages of this story to work on, especially since she's never read or watched Outlander (no, I know, guys. I know. I'm working on her) and she's just editing to be kind to me.


End file.
